Collision Course

by William Shatner

  Jimmy looked at the card. It said TARSUS IV EMERGENCY MEASURES ACT, GROUP 2. That was all.

  “Questions?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  “Next—” The governor reached into his pocket again, handed him another yellow card. “—you give them this card for you.”

  GROUP 2. Just like Donny’s.

  “I know you don’t have parents here, but my people at the table will take care of you as well. Oh, and you won’t need this anymore.” The governor took Jimmy’s rifle from him. “I’ll take it back for you.”

  Jimmy fought to keep his thoughts from showing on his face. He knew to a certainty that the yellow cards meant he and Donny would be killed.

  The governor hadn’t finished his instructions. “If you find any more of your friends on your way back to the storehouses, those cards will work for them, too. Be sure to tell them that. If they go back to the storehouses with you, they’ll join their parents or their guardians, somewhere nice and warm, and they won’t have to worry about being hungry. Understand?”

  Jimmy understood that the only reason the governor wasn’t killing him right now was because other children needed to be rounded up. Like the ostriches and transcattle. “Yes, sir,” he said in as strong a voice as he could muster.

  The governor looked down at him, considering. His calm, measured breaths wreathed him in the spilled radiance of the palmlights, the glow like a nebula in deep space. Jimmy knew he would never, never, forget that face, that voice. If he lived.

  “Off you go then. Do your part to help us all.”

  Jimmy reached down for Donny and lifted the small boy into his arms, willing himself to walk away, not flee in panic.

  “Not that way,” the governor said.

  Jimmy had started for the clearing’s far side where he thought he might have seen some other huddled children. Now he turned back. The governor was pointing to the dense bank of trees.

  “That’s the quickest way back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jimmy said. What he didn’t say was what he knew now: The other kids were dead.

  Holding Donny tight against him, he walked into shadow.

  Jimmy wished with all his heart that his dad were here. His dad and his dad’s starship and all his dad’s friends in their uniforms beaming down with food and lasers and warm clothes. He wished that someone—anyone—would come to take this darkness from him.

  Silently, in his mind, Jimmy sent out his call of distress. Over and over, calling for his dad and for Starfleet to save them all.

  That cry still echoed in the mind of seventeen-year-old Jim Kirk when he woke in the darkness of his cell in the STC brig.

  Three years on, and he still wished that someone would save him.

  Spock was given fifteen minutes with the prisoner in the bright orange jumpsuit.

  “Stretch. What’s new?”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  Spock considered his question most reasonable. But Kirk frowned and leaned over the small, gray metal table where the guards had led them. “Okay, then—who’s ahead in the lacrosse play-offs? What do you think I mean?”

  Spock waited a moment before he spoke again. It was possible, he decided, that Kirk had been inquiring, in a very imprecise manner, about a general update. He edged his hard metal chair closer to the table, folded his hands, and leaned forward as well. Then he glanced to both sides to be certain the two guards weren’t in position to overhear or read lips.

  “I suspect Griffyn is within forty-eight hours of departing.”

  Kirk leaned even closer. “How do you know?”

  “He is in the process of beaming freight containers from the Pacific Rome to an orbiting private cruiser.”

  Kirk grimaced as if in pain. Spock regarded him with some concern.

  “I mean, how do you know? Did they let you off the center?”

  “Ah,” Spock said. “In addition to obtaining dilithium and staff cars, Griffyn has been purchasing rare artifacts stolen from the Vulcan Embassy, by Vulcan staff.”

  He’d already decided he could trust the human—at least that much.

  This time Kirk looked confused. “Yeah, so?”

  Spock leaned closer. “As I pursued the mystery of the embassy thefts, I presented myself as someone who could also supply Vulcan artifacts.”

  Kirk nodded, impatient. “Let’s speed this along, Stretch. They only gave us fifteen minutes.”

  “I sold one to Dala. A small figurine. It was a forgery, of course. Undetectable by most methods because it contains a special transmitter that creates a false sensor image to make it appear authentic.”

  Kirk looked impressed. “Like a sensor repeater.”

  Spock knew that the transmitter he had designed was significantly better and more sophisticated than any sensor repeater Kirk had built, but decided this was not the time to remind the human of his inferiority. “The principles are somewhat the same,” he allowed.

  “But that still doesn’t explain how you know what Griffyn’s up to right now.”

  Spock idly brought a hand up to tap his chest, making certain the outline of his IDIC medallion could be seen through his white shirt. “The forged artifact contains a transmitter,” he repeated.

  Kirk’s smile came more quickly than Spock had anticipated. “And that thing you’re wearing is a receiver.”

  Spock folded his hands again.

  “That’s why you were worried about the delta radiation monitors,” Kirk said. “You had to hide the receiver in your boot so you wouldn’t set the monitor off when they pinned it right on top.”

  “As you said, we only have fifteen minutes,” Spock reminded Kirk.

  “What else do you know?”

  But Spock had obtained few other facts through his listening device in Griffyn’s office. So that the device would remain undetected, Spock had programmed it to record sound for hours at a time, then compress the data and transmit it at random intervals in microsecond-long, subspace bursts. Many times, it had simply recorded hours of silence when Griffyn’s office was not in use.

  He had, however, used his personal study time to access the Starfleet computer network from the STC’s library.

  “I did obtain a list of Starfleet material that has been stolen or reported missing in the past year, which is the period over which Griffyn’s organization has been active. I believe he has assembled a collection of items which, if properly modified, will allow him to build a small vessel that will appear to all sensor scans as a legitimate Starfleet shuttlecraft.”

  Spock took Kirk’s intent listening as the human’s attempt to mentally re-create his logic. He was on the verge of telling him that they did not have enough time to complete such an exercise when Kirk held up a hand to suggest he not speak.

  “Which would then give Griffyn a Starfleet shuttle that no one would suspect because no actual Starfleet shuttle will be known to have been stolen.”

  “Exactly,” Spock agreed, surprised and impressed once again. “What particular use Griffyn intends for such a vessel, I do not know. The possibilities are many.”

  “Any theory why the Starfleet geniuses haven’t figured this out?”

  Spock blinked. “I believe that Starfleet analysts are not sufficiently devious to think as Griffyn does.”

  Kirk grinned. “And you are?”

  “I have studied the literature quite extensively.”

  “Ah. And your conclusion, Sherlock?”

  “Spock.”

  “Time’s almost up…” Kirk warned.

  “I believe that Starfleet analysts are aware of Griffyn’s obtaining stolen Vulcan artifacts, and cannot reconcile those items with the other stolen goods. Their failure to do so prevents them from seeing how all the items fit the same pattern.”

  “You think the artifacts have something to do with building a fake Starfleet shuttlecraft.”

  Spock nodded, and just as he was about to guide the human through every step of his subtle, yet inexorable chain of logic,
Kirk snapped his fingers and interrupted.

  “Griffyn knows the artifacts are forgeries!”

  Spock’s eyebrows rose, beyond his conscious control. That was it, precisely.

  “Griffyn knows all the Vulcan artifacts are forgeries! Yours and the ones from the embassy staff.” Kirk’s restless mood had changed completely. Now it was sharp, intense, focused. “But that’s okay, because he only wants the circuits inside them that can fool sensors. He can use those to complete the illusion of the fake Starfleet vehicle he wants to build.”

  That conclusion was like a flash of lightning to Spock. Was it possible that there never was a criminal conspiracy inside the embassy? Could he have, instead, detected an official covert effort by embassy personnel to infiltrate an outside criminal conspiracy? If so, then the original artifacts had never been taken. They would still be safe, somewhere inside the embassy.

  The logic of the plan unfolded with painful precision before Spock. Embassy personnel would have created two copies of each artifact they’d “stolen.” One copy, with sensor-deceiving circuits, had been passed off to Griffyn. The second copy—what he had found in the embassy cabinet—would have been created as a safeguard against the possibility that Griffyn somehow tried to verify that the embassy thieves had left duplicates in place of the originals.

  “You still there?” Kirk asked.

  Spock wrenched his attention back to the present.

  “One more question that needs your logic,” Kirk said. “When you go through that list of things that Griffyn’s stolen, is there anything he’s missing? One last thing he needs to get—before he goes—so he can build his fake ship?”

  Spock nodded. He had already run that exercise. “The dilithium Griffyn stole from the Academy is approximately half the amount he would need to operate a Starfleet-class warp drive suitable for a shuttlecraft.”

  Kirk’s jaw tightened, an indication, Spock knew, that he was pursuing a thought with whatever baffling thought processes he used instead of logic.

  “You know, I actually got as far as opening that dilithium vault before they arrested me.”

  That fact Spock hadn’t known. The only information he’d been able to retrieve from the Starfleet computer system was that Recruit Kirk had been arrested and charged with attempted theft, and that Midshipman Corso had been implicated as his accomplice and was facing separation from the Academy. Additional details of the alleged crime were classified. Presumably that was to prevent others from identifying the security flaws that had allowed the attempted crime to take place.

  “In other circumstances,” Spock said, “I would offer congratulations.”

  “The thing is,” Kirk said, “the maintenance log I accessed last week, it said that the stolen dilithium had been replaced with a new shipment. But when I opened the vault, it was empty. Is there any chance Griffyn managed to make off with the rest of it?”

  Spock was pleased he knew the correct answer to that question. That he did so was one of the reasons his engineering course schedule had been rearranged this week.

  “Dilithium is, as always, in short supply,” he explained. “The replacement crystals that were shipped to the Sloane Complex have been requisitioned for more vital purposes.”

  “Which would be?”

  “The Starship Enterprise is nearing the end of her refit, well ahead of schedule. The dilithium intended for her is still in transit from Delta Vega. Therefore, in order to expedite the calibration of her new engines, the dilithium from the Sloane Complex was transferred to Spacedock two days ago.”

  “And no one told me?” Kirk complained.

  “You are not in the—” From the human’s expression, Spock realized he should stop there. “Another colloquialism?”

  “Sarcasm.” Kirk hit his fist against his open palm. “So that’s what we need to do.”

  Spock stared at him, concerned his concentration had faltered again and he had missed something significant Kirk had said.

  “Think of it, Stretch. A starship undergoing refit. It won’t have a full crew. Construction staff will be coming and going all the time. It’s got to be a lot easier sneaking on board a vessel like that than getting into Ground Zero.”

  Spock didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “Sneaking on board?”

  “Griffyn’s going to go after that dilithium,” Kirk said. “And he’s going to go after it in the next forty-eight hours.”

  Spock knew he wasn’t keeping up with the human’s rudimentary logic, and so did the human.

  “That was your conclusion,” Kirk reminded him. “He’s getting set to go in forty-eight hours, and he needs that dilithium. All we have to do is get up on the Enterprise before him, wait for him to make his move, and we catch him in the act in the middle of Spacedock where he can’t possibly get away.”

  Their time was up. The guards were walking toward the table.

  Spock stood, regarding Kirk in Vulcan disbelief.

  “What?” Kirk said. “That’s logical, isn’t it?”

  “Except for one key point. You are in the brig.”

  “Just figure out how to get us on board that ship. Leave the details to me.”

  40

  Even after centuries of war, disaster, and reconstruction, some traditions remained unchanged, and on Earth, the concept of the weekend still held sway.

  For the mids of the Academy, the two-day break in routine that followed every five-day period of intensely scheduled activity was a time for independent study, private pursuits, and, for some, catch-up sleep. But for these two days in late August, for the recruits of the STC, it was also their first weekend liberty, and sleep was something that could be put off till early Monday morning.

  As Spock prepared his bunk and locker for Saturday morning inspection, he was well aware of the plans the remaining members of Gold Team had made for their liberty. He was also well aware of their attempts to make it clear that none of their plans included him.

  Even if he had been human, Spock doubted that exclusion would have troubled him. His own weekend plans were full, and they were certainly nothing he would share with any of his so-called teammates. He thought it unlikely that any of them would have the desire to risk spending the next two years in a penal colony, no matter how noble the cause.

  In fact, the more Spock contemplated what he had planned, the more he thought it unlikely that until two weeks ago, he would have contemplated spending the next two years in a Starfleet penal colony.

  But then, two weeks ago, he hadn’t met Jim Kirk.

  By 0800 hours, Gold Team had dispersed for the weekend, most going off in groups.

  Spock walked by himself to the center’s main gate where an embassy car awaited him, hovering in a holding area. As he got in the car and it soared away, he wondered if he’d be returning to Starfleet on Sunday night, or ever.

  There were no weekend breaks in the brig.

  Kirk was roused at 0500, and an extruded breakfast was passed to him through the security bars of his cell. He was given thirty minutes to prepare for the day’s work detail.

  It didn’t matter that he had not yet been before a court-martial. Unlike his status at the time of his first brush with Starfleet authorities, he was no longer a civilian, and a different set of rules applied. Just by having lied to an officer about leaving his hat behind in order to gain unauthorized access to a secure facility—the Ground Zero lab—Kirk was enjoying ten days’ incarceration at hard labor.

  And, the guards promised him, those ten days would be a vacation compared to what was in store for him in New Zealand—the place he’d be going as soon as his court-martial was over.

  The guards’ cocky attitude set Kirk off, and he assured them in graphic detail that he had no intention of going to New Zealand or spending ten days at hard labor or remaining one hour longer than absolutely necessary in Starfleet.

  The guards enjoyed his tirade, and an hour later Kirk was standing with a shovel, up to his knees with four other prisoners
, in backed-up waste in the sub-subbasement of STC Building No. 5.

  “Start shoveling,” the crew boss told them.

  “Join Starfleet, smell the worlds,” one of the prisoners muttered.

  Kirk just shoveled, knowing he wouldn’t be here for long, though if asked, he couldn’t have said exactly how he knew he would escape.

  The Kir’Shara was the embodiment of Surak’s teachings, which were in turn the foundation of Vulcan civilization. A replica of the ancient device, appearing to be nothing more than a narrow stone pyramid, scarcely a meter tall, stood in a place of honor in the meditation garden of the Vulcan compound.

  It was there Spock found his father, contemplating the artifact that mirrored so well the conundrum faced by every modern Vulcan: How could it be that something so vital to the rule of logic had been lost by Vulcans, only to be found by a human?

  For almost a century of Earth time, philosophers had contemplated that question. None, to date, had provided an answer.

  “Have you had enough of this?” Sarek asked as Spock approached.

  Spock’s father wore a simple suit of brown cloth, devoid of any ceremonial gems or diplomatic markings. Spock was once again dressed in his dark civilian clothes and cloak. He saw his father raise an eyebrow as he noted his son’s new hairstyle.

  “Enough of what?” Spock asked. He stood near his father, hands behind his back. Both kept their attention on the Kir’Shara now.

  “I believe humans would call it a ‘game.’” Sarek did not bother to hide his disdain for the term from his son, though none but a Vulcan would recognize any change in Sarek’s demeanor.

  “You mean my enlistment in Starfleet.”

  “Of course, that is what I mean.” Sarek was being short with Spock.

  Spock felt he was ten years old again, being reprimanded for showing his dislike of being taunted by the other Vulcan children. “I find it an interesting experience.”